The Homecoming of Harry Potter
by Vaysh11
Summary: Harry Potter returns to Britain after four years of exile. He is accompanied by his lover and friend, the young man who brought down Voldemort. A remix of Lordhellebore's "Perseverance". H/D, slash


**The Homecoming of Harry Potter  
**A Remix of "Perseverance" by Lordhellebore.

The witness was walking toward the centre of the dungeon. He was young, barely thirty, but already his hair was shot with grey. The elegant robes did not quite fit his lithe frame. They seemed to belong to another man, a man more comfortable in robes made from expensive charcoal-coloured wool. The dragon-hide boots could not fully hide the man's limp. In the silence that had fallen over the Wizengamot his footsteps thudded in an irregular pattern on the stone floor. The scar on his forehead left no doubt as to his identity.

"Witness for the defence: Harry James Potter."

Draco's head snapped up; he spun around in the dock. Briggs' hand was on his shoulder at once, holding him back. Harry, they had brought Harry in.

Harry's eyes were searching the benches as he approached the chair in the centre of the room. When he discovered Draco, he flashed him a smile. Idiot. He should never have come. They shouldn't have allowed it.

Draco did not turn to Briggs. He kept staring at Harry. "I _told_ you not to call him as a witness." He tried to keep the snarl out his voice and failed.

"We need his statement, Mr Malfoy. He is the only witness who can corroborate your story."

"We have Snape's testimony. And you could have called my father in that witness chair. He was there that day, inside Voldemort's mansion. I specifically told you not to bring Harry into this."

"You must realise, Mr Malfoy, that a mere four years ago, your _father_ was sitting on the high seat, right where Minister Cattermole is sitting now. Lucius Malfoy is responsible for some of the most vicious of Voldemort's laws being passed. He sealed those verdicts with his magic. I can assure you nobody in this room will believe a word your father says. If, that is, there were any chance to get him out of Azkaban to testify."

Briggs spoke fast, in a low voice. He barely moved his lips; there was no sign of nervousness in the lawyer's demeanour. Briggs & Partners had been representing the Malfoy family for three generations. Draco forced himself to relax. He had sworn that he would learn to trust people again after the war.

In the centre of the courtroom, Harry stood beside the large chair, set there for the witness to be seated in plain view of the Wizengamot.

"Take your seat, Mr Potter." The voice of Reginald 'Reg' Cattermole, Minister of Magic, echoed through the dungeon.

From where he was sitting in the dock, Draco could hardly see the members of the Wizengamot. In the flickering torchlight they were a plum-coloured sea of wizards and witches up in the highest benches. The familiar silver W glittered on their robes. It was oddly reminiscent of the bright white V that Voldemort had chosen as his emblem when the Ministry was under his rule.

"Mr Potter, please take your seat."

Harry made another step forward but seemed to barely notice the chair beside him. He was staring straight ahead. Draco squinted to make out who he was looking at. The ginger head was hard to miss, even in the dim light. And there beside the tall wizard who had to be Weasley sat Granger. Granger-Weasley, Draco should say. Both distinguished members of the Wizengamot.

"You bloody brought _them_ in?" he hissed.

"Mrs Granger-Weasley has prepared Mr Potter for the trial, yes." Briggs' hand was back on Draco's shoulder as if he expected him to bolt any second and run towards Harry. Draco was of a mind to do just that. Idiots, bloody idiots, all of them.

"Mr Potter?" Cattermole's fatherly voice showed just a smidgeon of impatience with the Boy Who Lived. _The Boy Who Survived If Barely._ Low mutterings came from the corners of the dungeon.

Harry turned to look at Draco. He seemed... all right. There was still an air of caution around him, like in those first hours when they had been back to Britain, before the Aurors arrested Draco. His eyes were still too bright, and Draco lowered his hands slowly, to not draw attention to the shackles around his wrists. Harry would not understand why Draco was bound. He would be afraid. But he seemed all right, with bits of his Brittany self shining through.

"Why isn't he sitting down?" Briggs asked in a whisper.

"Chains," Draco said. They wound tightly around the arms of the witness chair, clinking whenever Harry moved. "He will not go near them." Damn Granger and her trial preparation. She knew nothing about Harry.

Harry was still searching his face. Draco nodded slightly. _Sit down, Potter. Those things are harmless._ Harry did not seem convinced. He had been tethered for years like an animal, gone without daylight and barely any food or water. But what did those idiots know?

"Mr Potter," Minister Cattermole said, clearly trying for patience now, "please do take a seat so you may give your testimony."

"Your Honour," Briggs called out, "a suggestion. May I?"

Harry looked from Draco to Briggs at his side. Most people would have missed the slight twist of his wrist. _Careful, love._

"It's your witness, Briggs. Do whatever you must to get him to sit."

Briggs' voice rang out above the hum in the courtroom. "Perhaps the witness could be allowed to deliver his testimony standing, Your Honour? Mr Potter was subjected to sev..."

Out of thin air, a chintz chair appeared beside Harry. It was an awful shade of dusky pink with – violets? You're shitting me, Potter. Draco couldn't help smiling as Harry pointed his wand at the monstrosity and moved it a few feet away from the witness chair, then gingerly sat on its edge.

Briggs drew in a sharp breath. Harry had become an expert at wordless magic. Brittany would do that to you. (_The inability to speak would do the rest._)

"Er... It seems the witness found a solution. Your Honour, would it be all right if Mr Potter sat in his own chair?"

Briggs reacted fast, Draco had to give him that. Cattermole disregarded the question with a small, impatient wave and nodded, nose already buried in the long roll of parchment, trailing all the way from the interrogator's high bench to the floor.

"Sirs and Mesdames, let's start today's session. We are hearing the witnesses of the defence. The accused, Draco Abraxas Malfoy, is charged with murder, torture, the use of all three Unforgivable Curses, the torture and abduction of Harry James Potter, and aiding and abetting the crimes committed against humanity, wizarding and Muggle, by the late Tom Marvolo Riddle and his followers."

The charges, intoned with an almost casual routine, a litany of legal terms, still brought an ominous silence into the courtroom. Draco had heard them before; it was the third day of his trial. Still, a shiver ran through him at Harry's name. He had tortured him, had had no choice but to use the Cruciatus on him in front of the Dark Lord. Four years of peace had not been enough to make up for that. _Not nearly enough, love._

"Are you Harry James Potter, of Carantec, in the wizarding department of Finistère on the peninsula of Brittany?" Cattermole's dark voice easily filled the room.

"Yes," Harry said. There was a bit of a scratch to his voice but he was enunciating clearly. Granger's work, it had to be.

Gasps rose from the spectators' benches. What? Did they not recognise their Golden Boy? Did they need to hear him say it? Briggs' hand had never left Draco's shoulder but now he pushed down hard, pressing Draco back onto the bench.

"Do remain calm, Mr Malfoy," he whispered. "You have to understand: Harry Potter was declared dead four years ago."

"I know that. But can't they _see_?" Draco hissed back.

Up front, Cattermole spoke. "And you have lived outside of England for the last four years?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"How do you know the accused Draco Abraxas Malfoy, Mr Potter?"

"Good," Harry said, his tone earnest, as always when he said this word. Nobody in this room knew what all _good_ encompassed. They didn't know what it had cost Harry, to say this first word after years of silence. They didn't know that it had taken Draco's touch, hesitant and shameful, to make Harry say it.

Predictably, there were muffled giggles from the audience, as if Harry had meant to mock the Wizengamot. Cattermole looked slightly miffed, then took a deep breath and smiled benignly at Harry.

"You told him?" Draco whispered to Briggs. "About Harry?"

"We – and by 'we' I mean Head of Magical Law Enforcement Granger-Weasley and myself – advised the Minister to ask simple questions, to be answered with as few words as possible."

"Harry speaks his own language, you know."

"We are aware of that."

"You were living with Mr Malfoy in Brittany during the last four years? Is that what you mean to say, Mr Potter?" Cattermole spoke louder, with a sharp edge to his words. The low din was silenced at once.

"Yes," Harry said. He turned his head towards the dock, not quite looking at Draco.

"Do you remember the day when you left Britain? The first of May 2004? Do you remember this day, Mr Potter?"

Harry had his head still turned to the side. "Yes," he said.

"Could you tell us, in a few words, what happened on this day?"

Draco couldn't help roll his eyes. "No, he fucking can't," he snarled. "A few words? Like a full sentence? This is insane, Briggs."

The big Auror at Draco's side shot him a warning glance.

"Shh." Briggs' hold on Draco's shoulder was painful.

"Draco..." Harry halted. Then he said Draco's name again, emphasising each syllable carefully.

Draco was clutching the wooden railing. Harry had no words to describe what had happened on that day. Salazar, Draco himself had not been able to talk about it for months.

"Yes?" Cattermole leaned forward. He seemed friendly enough, well-meaning, a nice bloke – for a Minister. For a moment, Draco imagined his father in the Minister's seat. Tall, pure-bred, sly Lucius Malfoy. Father must have sat there, sentencing Muggle-born and Pureblood wizards and witches, with the Dark Lord in the shadows at the back, directing his minions. Thousands had been Kissed or driven insane by the Dementors of Azkaban in the years of Voldemort's rule. The Dark Years, they were called now in Britain. Draco tried to forget the darkness. Brittany had been his light, his exile. It had been a quiet life of windy beaches and the wide glittering sea. But Harry had needed to come back home.

"Good. Good." Harry nodded vigorously. Then he slid off the chintz chair and stood.

Draco felt the rise of magic even before he saw the wand in Harry's hand. "Shit."

"What? What is he doing?" Briggs stood up, along with many of the spectators.

"Voldemort," Harry said. Not a stumble, not a stutter. _Voldemort_.

Draco could only stare. Harry had never said the Dark Lord's name, not once, never since those first weeks in the Manor's dungeons when that deranged... when his aunt had had Harry under _Cruciatus_ for hours and hours, days even. They'd broken him. When Harry finally had been released into Draco's care, he had been sure Harry would never be able to walk again, let alone speak. And now –

"Did Granger teach him that?" She must have.

Briggs just nodded, his eyes glued on Harry. There was another surge of magic, Harry's magic but darker and sharper than usual. More powerful, too. _Potter, what are you doing?_

Others felt it, too; there was a commotion in the courtroom. A witch was scrambling along the benches, dragging a girl behind her. The child was crying loudly. Within seconds, they reached the exit and left. The heavy iron door slammed close behind them.

Harry lifted his wand. He cast a spell, wordlessly, like he had been doing for the last three years since he'd rediscovered his magic. Storm clouds gathered under the low ceiling, darker even than the black stone walls. The hollow eye sockets became visible at first, then the shape of the skull formed. Drifting scuds coiled into the body of the serpent. It slithered from the toothless mouth. A thunderstorm seemed to be raging inside the skull. _Potter, damn you. Are you crazy?_

"Morsmordre!" a member of the Wizengamot screamed. The wizard's face was ghostly white amidst the dark robes.

People called out in fear, in shocked surprise. "The Dark Mark!" – "You-Know-Who's Mark!" – "Right here in the Ministry!"

The plum-coloured, faceless mass on the high benches in front was moving; everybody jumped up from their seats. Two Aurors who had been guarding the door rushed forward towards Harry who stood with his wand raised high.

Cattermole held up his right hand. The Aurors stopped at once, mere steps away from the two chairs. The Minister did not even flinch, his gaze trained on Harry as if no Dark Mark was hovering above him. In this moment Draco understood why the post-war Wizengamot had elected Reg Cattermole their Minister.

Harry seemed entirely unfazed by the chaos that had broken out in the courtroom. He _was_ calm, Draco knew. After all that Harry had been through, this was nothing, child's play. He had his head turned upwards, looking at the Mark he had conjured. There was nothing but determination in his face, no fear, no pain.

"Draco," he said, slowly, deliberately. Then he added, "Voldemort hurt me. Voldemort hurt Draco." He didn't raise his voice, but his simple words could be heard clearly. "Draco", he repeated and pointed his wand at the billowing Mark.

And again he cast a spell. Draco knew it at once; he could feel it like pain in his mind. A flash of green light shot from Harry's wand and something huge and invisible travelled through the air. It severed the serpent's tail from its body in one slashing cut. A bolt of lightning zig-zagged through the Mark, carving the skull in halves. They collapsed into each other, glowing eerily green; they became shapeless things, turning into stray wisps of fog. Another wave of Harry's wand, and they were gone. Only the shadows from the torchlight were left, flickering over the black ceiling.

"Good," Harry said, voice scratchy and earnest, so earnest. He lowered his wand and slid it back into his sleeve. Then he turned towards Cattermole. "Good," he said again. "Good."

Cattermole stared at him; he opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Harry waited, standing with all his weight on his good leg. _Sit, you git. You're going to collapse any minute now._

Cattermole shifted about, searching faces amongst the members of the Wizengamot, likely to assure himself that the others had seen the same as he had. Finally he turned back towards Harry. A small smile played on his lips.

"You are right, Mr Potter," he said. "It's good. Thank you."

Something gave, and Harry swayed; he slumped backwards onto the chintz chair. Briggs had Draco at once, clutching him so hard it felt like he was ripping his arms out. But Draco wanted, Merlin, he _needed_ to get down. With Briggs holding him back he could but stand, trembling and aching to wrap Harry in his arms.

Five words. It had taken five bloody words. And Harry could barely say a dozen words. Mostly simple ones like pretty, water, dunes. When Harry talked, it was about the sea, about warmth, about being safe. About his bloody oysters. And yet, here he was, smiling back at Draco, his tired face alight with joy. Draco's most powerful defence, his ticket to freedom. _Always the Gryffindor, Potter. (Always, love.)_

oOo

Draco had visited number twelve, Grimmauld Place as a child, and in his memories the house was dank, dusty and decidedly creepy. Even now, when he rushed up the worn steps and tried to push the door open, he got a sniff of something sour-sweet and rotting from inside.

"The building is warded, Mal... Draco, I mean." Granger – Hermione – stood beside him, her wand out. She cast a rather complicated-looking spell Draco had never heard of. At once, the silver serpent of the doorknocker uncoiled and the door opened into an ominously silent hallway.

"Potter!" Draco called out as he hurried down the gloomy passage. One by one, the ancient-looking gas lamps on the walls sputtered alight as he passed them by. "Potter, where are you?"

"Draco, slow down. He's all right. I told you. Ron brought him back, and Harry said it was fine to leave him alone in the house. You yourself told us to not treat him like an invalid."

"Harry's perfectly able to be on his own. But what do you think that testimony in the courtroom today cost him, Granger?" Draco started up the stairs. No need to check for Harry in the kitchen. He would not be in the kitchen.

It had taken them all afternoon and the better part of the evening to get Draco released into the care of Hermione Granger-Weasley until the final verdict. Cattermole and the Wizengamot believed Harry; there was even talk of some ceremony for Harry and Draco to honour their role in the downfall of Voldemort. Still, Draco had been asked (_forced_) to look at all the evidence the MLE had gathered: Voldemort's manor house at the Bishop's Avenue, the reception room where the Dark Lord had called Draco for the private audience, the shrivelled snake-faced corpse, the dead body of his aunt who had Sectumsempraed her wrists when she found her newly-wedded husband dead. There had been little blood, a few rusty drops spattered on the Dark Lord's visage, dried red smears on his aunt's pale forearms. Still, whenever Draco closed his eyes, he saw a bright red carnage behind his lids.

"Potter! Damn, where are you?" The house was huge, with staircases leading into several storeys above. There probably was even another stairwell at the back for the house-elves. Draco groaned. "Gr... Hermione, are there more stairs at the back?"

She stood right behind him. "Yes. It's down that way." She pointed towards a narrow hallway to the right that Draco had missed in the shadows. "He's not in the kitchen," she added, with a small shake of her head.

"Of course he's not." Draco ran down the dimly-lit hallway. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw the small cupboard below a flight of stairs. The square door was painted with what once might have been a chocolatey brown but had faded to a peeling muddy grey. Draco had his wand out at once.

"_Alohomora!_," he called and the door opened with a rusty creak. The inside was stuffed with blankets and pillows, all slightly mouldy. A thick layer of dust covered the bottles and boxes on the shelves at the side. "Too small," Draco muttered. _Harry, Harry, where are you?_

"He wouldn't ..." Granger started.

"He would," Draco cut her off, slamming the cupboard door shut. "Is there a larger cupboard somewhere in this house? One where Potter would fit in?"

Granger's brown eyes glittered in the dim light from the gas lamps; her mouth twitched. "There are some bigger ones upstairs, near the bedrooms."

Draco turned away from her. He needed to calm down. Harry was here, somewhere in this decrepit excuse for a home, but he was safe. He stepped towards the staircase, when Granger caught him by the sleeve.

"Why do you still call him Potter when you are such good friends?" Her voice sounded calm but her grip around Draco's arm was like iron.

They _still_ did not trust him. Draco tried to wrestle his arm free but Granger would not budge. "Let me go," he snarled. Salazar save him from the stupidity of these people.

"Tell me."

"It's how we are. I call him Potter, he calls me Draco. And now fucking let go of me, Granger!" He wrenched himself free and started up the stairs.

"It's Hermione." She followed him, her steps so quiet Draco felt like a Hippogriff clambering up the stairs. "You are sleeping with him, aren't you?"

Draco stopped. Leave it to Granger to bring this up now. Not in his cell when they had waited for the Wizengamot's decision, not when they had taken the Floo to the nearest wizarding bar because Draco was still forbidden Apparition on British soil. Not while walking – in excruciatingly awkward silence, he might add – through the Muggle neighbourhood until they had reached Grimmauld Place.

Granger stepped beside him onto the landing. She looked good in the Aurors' red robes and her hair cut short. Older, more settled, without that overzealous air of always having to prove herself. For a breathless moment, Draco was reminded of Pansy who had died, miserably, in Azkaban, and he had not been able to help her, had not been able to do anything for her, or the Dark Lord would have taken Harry away from him. He swallowed, and Granger must have seen something in his face, for her features softened and she took a small step back. She was watching him, though, and waiting for an answer.

"I... I do," Draco said, and he didn't want his voice to sound so raw but there was nothing he could do to hide the emotion. "I am sleeping... We are sleeping together." Sleeping in the dark corners of the Manor's dungeon, in the pitch-black cupboard of Draco's room, in Draco's bed. For years, all they had shared was their bodies' warmth, with Draco holding Harry, and Harry clinging to him like Draco was his lifeline, his saviour, the one person his entire world revolved around. Nobody could understand how it had been during those dark years, nobody. Back then, being safe and together, if only for the night, had been the best they could have hoped for.

"Harry wasn't gay... before," Granger said, her chin raised as if to challenge him to say differently.

"Harry was seventeen when the Snatchers captured you. He was a different person then." _Whole and safe and Dumbledore's pet._ "He told me he hadn't slept with any–"

"He told you? How can he tell you anything when he can't even say his name?" Her voice was rising, and Draco knew her frustration all too well.

"We do talk. It's not all words, you know. And you saw him, Granger. You saw what he did in front of the Wizengamot. Harry makes his point. He always does."

In Carantec, their bed had been wrapped in flittering sun-mottled shadows during the days, and the glittering magic of moonlight at night. It wasn't supposed to be like this, and it had not felt right to Draco until one day it simply had. The kiss of Harry's lips, the touch of his strong hands, the feel of Harry's cock buried deep inside of him – it had taken years and Brittany to make Draco believe that it was right. But now this was who they were, and if that meant Harry was gay, then so be it.

They were measuring each other, Granger mulling over his words, by the way her jaw worked. Draco's stomach fluttered with impatience. He needed to find Harry.

"Let's go." He turned towards the stairs.

From the next landing, uncarpeted wooden steps led even further up, into the attic, Draco assumed. Then he saw one of the large cupboard Granger – Hermione (_Merlin!_) – had spoken of. White boards covered the walled-in space below the stairs. Near the cupboard's door stood a scuffed bedside table with a broken glass top and three large trunks piled precariously on top of it. A pair of dragon-hide boots was lying beside it.

"Potter." Draco crouched down. "Open up, it's me."

For a moment Draco wondered whether Harry was asleep. But Harry had not slept one night without him in the last seven years. He put his hand against the door. "It's me, Harry."

There was a bang inside and a wordless, hissed curse, then the word "Draco" could be heard, muffled by the wooden wall. The next moment, the door flew open and Harry crawled out. He still wore the robes he'd worn for the hearing. He was in socks, and there were spider-webs in his hair. _Pale, he's too damn pale._ Harry got up quickly, in one fluid motion, and he pressed himself against Draco, arms around Draco's waist, and he buried, as he always did, his face against Draco's chest.

Draco murmured to him, soft sounds the ocean had taught him, and he pulled Harry even closer with both arms wrapped around his body. Over Harry's dark head he saw Hermione watch them, and he wondered what she thought, with Harry so childlike in his need for reassurance, and Draco unable to stop him. Unable to stop himself when Harry's whole body was trembling.

Whatever Hermione was thinking, she stepped away, into one of the bedrooms, and gave them space. Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

Harry's head came up the moment Hermione had closed the door behind her. His eyes were a dark green, like the ocean before a storm.

"Hurt?" he asked, and Draco shook his head.

"No. I am fine, Harry. I am all right."

Harry released a stuttering breath, then he kissed Draco, a small, quick kiss. _So warm, love._

"Good," he whispered, his lips hovering over Draco's. "Good."

"Merlin, yes. It's all good." Draco kissed him back, and he needed to deepen the kiss until tongues got involved and he lost himself in the heat of Harry's mouth. When they came up for air, he murmured, "That was some fancy magic, Potter. But you do realise both _Morsmordre_ and _Avada Kedavra_ are illegal?"

Harry grinned, a wide boyish grin. Oh, he knew exactly what he had done and that only Harry Potter could get away with it. Slowly he loosened his arms from Draco's neck, then moved his chin towards the closed bedroom door.

"Hermione," he said, pronouncing Granger's name with care.

Another word. Granger had taught him another bloody word, her name even. Draco couldn't help the giddy feeling bubbling up inside him. Perhaps it had been right to come back to Britain, after all. Perhaps Harry _was_ ready for more than the ocean and the oyster farms. "Your friends have overly complicated names," was all he said but Harry understood.

He took Draco's hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. "Pretty."

"You think so?" Draco knocked on the door to let Hermione know they were ready for company. He leaned towards Harry, whispering in his ear, "It's a stupid Muggle name if you ask me."

oOo

Hours after midnight, Hermione long gone and the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black wrapped in silence, they were sitting cross-legged in the cupboard. It was a big storage place yet still too small for two grown men. But Harry had refused to even look at the bedrooms and would not sleep anywhere else. He had transfigured a blanket into a thick mattress, and Draco had taken two pillows and a duvet from the huge four-poster bed in the bedroom opposite the stairs. They smelled fresh enough, if a bit like old lavender and dust.

He sat in his pants, wrapped in a Warming Charm. A _Lumos_ was burning on the tip of Harry's wand. Slowly Harry inspected every inch of Draco's body. And damn those shackles, for they had left marks on his wrists, and Harry of course discovered them.

"Hurt?" he asked for what had to be the hundredth time. In the magical light the bruises shone an angry red against Draco's pale skin.

"No, it's fine. It doesn't hurt."

Harry moved his wand. With his free hand he touched whatever part of Draco's body the light illuminated. His palms were calloused and covered with small scars from the oyster shells. Draco felt his nipples harden under their rough touch. Harry brushed his waist and thighs, then held his wand over Draco's groin. There was no hiding his arousal in the bright light. Okay, so he was hard. They were safe and together. Draco would challenge anyone to not get hard from Harry's touch, cupboard or no cupboard. Harry reached for the waistband of the pants and let it snap, a clear invitation to get rid of them.

"Are you're done?" Draco lifted his arse so Harry could slide down the pants. "Can we fuck now?"

The _Lumos_ was still burning. Not done yet, then. Draco lay back on the mattress and spread his legs wide, to let Harry see and feel that he was truly unharmed, even at his most intimate places. Harry examined his prick just as he had all other parts of Draco's body, with gentle touches no different from a lover's, except for the fear in Harry's eyes. The Dark Lord had not spared Harry's genitals when he had tortured him.

"Hurt?" he asked again, cradling Draco's balls.

"No. It's fine. I'm fine."

Draco's last word had barely left his lips when the _Lumos_ went out. In the sudden darkness there was a clatter from a wand rolling on the floorboards. There was rustling, of someone discarding their clothes. Then Harry was lying next to Draco on the mattress, real and solid, all muscle and warm skin. Draco reached for him and pulled him close and Harry pushed his thigh between Draco's legs. His cock was pressing hard against Draco's groin. It made Draco light-headed to feel all of Harry like that.

Harry reached between them and wrapped his hand around their cocks. "Good," he murmured, voice gone dark and husky.

The smell of seaweed was in the air; the ocean was lapping quietly at the boards. Moonlight was shining through the cracks in the walls. Draco thrust lightly into Harry's hand, and he pulled Harry's head close, to kiss him, forever.

It was good. It was good. Good. Good. _Good._

_fin_


End file.
